


Genuine Partners

by OriginalSeaQueen



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: M/M, season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-28 06:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10825680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalSeaQueen/pseuds/OriginalSeaQueen
Summary: Hi all! This work is canon until 7x10, and these boys are still on their way to Mexico together. This is my first ever fic, and I'm only here for Gallavich. Hoping to update every two-ish weeks at the latest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This work is canon until 7x10, and these boys are still on their way to Mexico together. This is my first ever fic, and I'm only here for Gallavich. Hoping to update every two-ish weeks at the latest.

Ian looks out the window, marveling at the clear, cloudless sky and the vast expanse of nothing rolling out in front of them as far as his eyes can see. The dull yellow of the sand contrasts with the light blue of the sky, the road in front of him rolled out like a red carpet, ushering them to a new life. He’s never been this far from Chicago. This far from the South Side streets and the smell of alcohol and the hustle and bustle that is the Gallagher house on a Monday morning. It’s beautiful, he thinks, and he wonders why it’s taken him 21 years to see it. He wonders why it’s taken him 21 years to realize where he’s supposed to be. 

“Mick! You know what I just realized?” Ian turns from the window so quickly, Mickey worries he’s given himself whiplash.

“We’re on a genuine road trip! Like, with the car and the driving and the snacks.” Ian holds up a bag of pork rinds. He’d never eat them, but Mickey had wanted them at the last gas station they’d stopped at, so Ian bought them. 

“You’ve never been on a road trip? I didn’t realize the life of a Gallagher could be so sheltered.” Mickey jested.

“What, because you have?”

“Yeah, my brothers and I used to go on runs all the time, all over the place.” Shit, Ian had forgotten about that. “You really never went anywhere?”

“Please, my parents are Frank and Monica. The furthest we ever went was Decatur because they wanted to score some PCP from a friend of their dealer’s.” 

Mickey shoots Ian a glance filled with disbelief. Really? He knew Frank was bad, but damn. Running guns with Terry was better than riding along with Frank and Monica trying to find PCP. A repeated buzzing noise breaks Mickey out of his reverie, recalling late night drives and threatening baseball bats.

Ian’s phone buzzes in his hand, and he rolls his eyes when he sees “Fiona” in bold white letters on the screen. Frustrated, he throws the still-ringing phone into the empty cup holder in front of him.

“Again?” Mickey asks, dragging his eyes away from the road to glance at Ian’s face, which is expressionless in the worst way. Ian doesn’t answer, so Mickey knows he’s right. “Don’t you think you should answer that, man? It’s like the sixth time she’s called today and it’s only fuckin’ noon.”

“She’s just calling to give me shit. She knows I left with you, and she made it pretty fuckin’ clear she didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“Told you to stay away from my ass, huh?” Mickey asked, slightly amused. How funny that, after all this time, and after everything he and Fiona went through together to help Ian, she still couldn’t see past his last name.

“Yeah… but she had to know I wouldn’t.”

“You tell her you were leaving before you actually left? Say goodbye and all that sappy Gallagher shit? It’ll be a while ‘til we can go back.” Mickey steals another glance at the man sitting on his right, eyebrow cocked in traditional Milkovich fashion, blue eyes lingering as long as they can before the road pulls them back. 

“Nah, just packed a bag and came to meet you,” Ian replies without the slightest indication of remorse. 

“So she doesn’t actually know you’re with me.” Mickey stated bluntly.

“Not technically, no, but where the hell else would I be?”

Mickey pauses. “You’re a fucking dick, man. She probably thinks you’re dead in a ditch somewhere. Off your meds or some shit.”

“I don’t want to talk to her, Mick. I don’t want to hear the “you’re-throwing-your-life-away” speech I’m sure she’s already written in her head. She thinks just because I have a fucking job and my meds are sorted out that I’m happy.” Ian pauses and then adds quietly, “haven’t been happy since you left.” 

“I didn’t leave, asshole. I got thrown in prison on bullshit charges. Fuckin’ huge difference…”

Ian doesn’t respond. He knows Mickey’s right; he didn’t try to kill Sammi. He did try to torture her a little bit and yeah, that’s crazy, but he tried to do it for Ian. Mickey would do anything for him. Ian wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling guilty for leaving Mickey alone in prison all this time. 

Mickey can see the wheels in Ian’s head turning, re-thinking and regretting the past. He knows Ian feels badly, and he sure as hell isn’t over everything that went down. A year is a long time to spend sitting in prison, twiddling your thumbs, waiting for your boyfriend to swallow his pride. Maybe boyfriend. Mickey’s not really sure what they were when he went in, but he knows they were something. They’ve always been something, and something is more than nothing. Something deserves a visit every once in a while. 

At some point, they’re going to have to talk about that, but now isn’t the time. “Whatever,” Mickey says, dismissing his own, and hopefully Ian’s, thoughts about prison and betrayal. “In four minutes when she calls again, you can either answer the phone or throw it out the goddamn window. I’m not listening to that thing buzzing all the way to San Antonio. Drives me up a goddamn wall.”

Mickey no sooner finishes his sentence when Ian’s phone rings. Mickey looks over at Ian in the passenger seat, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head, daring Ian to answer it. Ian glares right back and, without breaking Mickey’s gaze, picks up the phone. Mickey thinks he’s finally about to answer, but he sees Ian tapping at the screen and then –

“There,” Ian sighs exasperatedly. “Now it’s on silent. Keep your eyes on the road before we get pulled over for a traffic violation and you land back in jail.”

Mickey glances at him out of the corner of his eye and Ian returns his look with a quirky side-smile. He snakes his hand across the middle console and finds Mickey’s own, resting them both on Mickey’s thigh. They sit in silence for a few minutes. The bright sun through the windshield warms their skin, painting them with a soft golden glow. Ian’s hair burns bright, reflecting rays in every shade of red and gold, and Mickey’s eyes shine more silver than blue. It’s not long before Ian interrupts the quiet that has settled over their drive. 

“Mick?”

“What, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, no bite to his question – only a tinge of sleepiness and an overwhelming affection. 

Ian shifts in his seat and looks sheepishly at Mickey. “I gotta pee.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey finally make it back to Chicago for Monica's funeral.

Ian feels an alarming sense of déjà vu. This same highway, these same gas stations and roadside bars and rest areas. The same signs for the same stupid tourist attractions. He can’t believe they’re doing this all over again. Making this drive. Going back to Chicago… Chicago. Where the police are searching high and low for a certain fugitive he happens to be sharing a car with. This is so stupid. 

Ian huffs out a quick breath and turns from watching the same boring scenery through the window to watching Mickey watching the road in front of them. They haven’t spoken for a while, only the low hum of the radio playing out classic rock to save the car from complete silence. “You know this is dumb, right?” Ian finally cracks. He understands why they’re going back, why Mickey needs them to go back, but he doesn’t think it’s nearly worth the risk.

Mickey doesn’t appear to register Ian’s question at all, and he just continues driving, eyes glued diligently to the open road. Ian turns away from Mickey and back to the window. If he’s honest with himself, he’s not angry that they’ve deserted their Mexico plans. No, not angry. Something else. Scared. He’s scared. Scared that Chicago will mean prison sentences and the end of them. Scared that they’re blowing off their last chance for someone who, no matter how much he cared for her, never gave a damn about him. At least not enough of a damn. Scared that he’ll lose two people he cares about in the span of a few days. Scared that he won’t be able to come back from that. Ian didn’t realize he’d uttered the truth aloud until Mickey’s head finally snapped from the road to his in the passenger seat. 

“What do you mean, scared? Ian Gallagher? Scared? Of some fuckin’ cops? Come on, man. We’re fucking South Side. Cops are afraid of us.”

“Yeah, real afraid of us when we’re locked up in handcuffs wearing tacky orange jumpsuits in different prisons.” Ian retorts. Why isn’t Mickey taking this seriously? 

“Ian…you’ve got to trust me. I got myself out of there, right? Got myself back to you? Got us halfway to Mexico? We’re going to be fine. We do this funeral thing, you say an actual goodbye to your family, all eighteen of them, and we’re back on the road. Back to the plan. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah, of course I trust you, Mick. I just… I can’t see you in there like that again. I can’t do it. I miss—fuck. I missed you.”

“I know, man. I missed you too. And I know I look shitty in orange, you don’t have to keep implying it.” Mickey cracks a smile at Ian, and he can’t help but return a small one of his own. Mickey takes a second to absorb Ian’s warm smile before he pulls the car over on the shoulder. 

“What are we doing?” Ian asks, eyebrows drawn together in the middle of his pale forehead. 

“We’re switching seats. Someone hasn’t been doing their fair share of the driving and I need a fucking nap.”

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

Mickey sleeps for much longer than he means to. Chalk it up to the fact that he didn’t have a single good night’s sleep the entire year and a half he spent in prison. Always tossing and turning on that fucking cot, iron bars digging into his back, cold without Ian lying next to him. Not that the car they stole is particularly comfortable, but honestly anything would be an upgrade from that damned cot. He wakes up to Ian’s jacket thrown over his face and the smell of stale french fries. He sits up, throwing the jacket off his face in the same motion. He sees Ian sitting rigid in the driver’s seat, the car motionless. Soon enough, Mickey realizes where they are. They’re parked exactly halfway between his old house and the Gallagher house. They’re back in the South Side.

“Why did you put a jacket over my fucking head? Trying to suffocate me so you can turn my lifeless body into the police and avoid a sentence for yourself?”

Ian turns from looking forward to looking at Mickey, face unamused and tired. 

“Sorry, I guess that’s not funny. Really though, what’s with the jacket?”

“Didn’t want anyone to drive by and see you. Recognize you as the escaped con and rat you out to the police. Here,” Ian tosses a brown paper bag into Mickey’s lap, “got you a burger and some fries. Thought you might be hungry when you woke up. Slept for fucking ever.”

Mickey tosses Ian’s jacket into the backseat, straightens up, and tears into the bag. Ian made a good call – he is fucking hungry. He shoves five fries into his mouth at once, all while unwrapping his cold burger with the other hand. He feels Ian’s eyes on him, but doesn’t tear his attention from his meal. 

“Jesus, Mick. You’d think you hadn’t eaten in a year.”

“Not like prison food counts as sustenance, so that’s a pretty accurate assessment.” Mickey mumbles around a mouthful of fries and burger bun. “Why are we just sitting here? Your house is up like, two more blocks.”

“Don’t say ‘like two more blocks’ like you don’t know it’s exactly two blocks away.” Ian rests his head in his hand and leans it against the cool window, closing his eyes like he’s already over this place. 

“What are we waiting for?” Mickey asks, though he already knows the answer.

“I just need a second Mick. I’m not ready to deal with any of this right now. Just another couple minutes, okay? Just another couple minutes.”

Mickey reaches over and grabs Ian’s hand, the one that’s not currently supporting his giant ginger head. When Ian lifts his head to look back at him, Mickey uses his other hand to pull him into a kiss. “We’re gonna do this together,” he says, and flops back into his own seat. Ian gives his hand a sharp squeeze before disentangling it to turn the key in the ignition. 

“I know, Mick.”

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

Five short minutes later, Ian pulls the car up to the curb outside the Gallagher house. 2119 N. Wallace looks the same as it did three days ago, the same as it did three years ago, the same as it did before Ian was ever born. Nothing ever changes on the South Side, and that’s part of what Ian hates about it. It’s so stifling. So monotonous. In the South Side, he’ll always be a child. Always overlooked and unheard. He takes a deep breath, and steps out of the car onto the sidewalk just outside his childhood home. He hears Mickey do the same behind him, and Ian hopes that he’s prepared himself for what will undoubtedly be a shit-show inside. 

Mickey slides his hand into Ian’s and together they walk up the few stairs to the Gallagher front door. 

“Mick, I don’t want to do this, but we’ve really got to get you inside.” Ian glances around furiously, pleased to see that they are alone in the cold Chicago night. 

“Well then, let’s get to it, Tough Guy,” Mickey says, as he unceremoniously throws the front door open. 

The sight that lay on the other side of the door was not one either Mickey or Ian were prepared for. Every Gallagher was seated in the living room, rifling through stacks of brochures, all speaking at once. As soon as the front door hit the wall, and before the boys can figure out what all the hubbub was about, Ian’s family whips their heads around to the door. For a brief moment everyone, Gallagher and Milkovich alike, stands frozen and silent, until Fiona finally breaks, relieved and apprehensive all at once.

“Ian, you came.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew okay so it's been a hot minute. I've become the person I swore I'd never be -- someone who starts a multi-chapter and doesn't finish it. Don't hate me, I've got that covered. 
> 
> We getting deep into our feelings at the end of this chapter. It's possible that it'll feel OOC to some, but prison changed Mick. There's not a doubt in my mind that he's always been a deep thinker, someone who's up late at night thinking about the world and why things are the way they are. I think post-prison Mickey is just able to verbalize all that a little better now. He's more open, especially with Ian. 
> 
> I hope you like it. It's been a long time coming. As always, let me know what you think. And talk to me. About Gallavich. Because they're all I care about.

Even at the sound of Fiona’s voice, Ian stays anchored to his spot in the doorway. Before he can bolt for the car and drive them both back to the Mexican border, Mickey slips his hand into Ian’s and urges him into the Gallagher living room.

 

“Yeah, I came,” Ian forces the words past the lump in his throat — a product of both the sadness and fear he’d been battling since Monica died and Mickey suggested they come back.

 

Fiona stands, and suddenly her arms are wrapped around Ian, her face buried in the crook of his neck. The same hug as before, when he returned home unannounced after the Army. After Mickey’s visit to the Fairytale. He hugs her back and for the first time realizes how glad he is to be here. Not because it’s home, but because he should be here to bury Monica with his siblings. They’ve never had much — never really had Monica or Frank in the ways that they needed them — but they’ve had each other.

 

When Fiona and Ian disentangle, Ian realizes that the commotion he and Mickey had walked in on has already resumed. Lip and Debbie argue at the table, both pointing at different brochures and raising their voices to be heard over the sound of Franny’s crying. Liam and Carl are on the couch. Carl is listening intently to both Debbie and Lip, head ping-ponging back and forth as he tries to follow their discussion, while Liam sits silently. Ian turns behind him and finds Mickey leaning against the wall, unsure of his place in the cacophony.

 

Fiona seems to remember Mickey at the same time Ian’s eyes find him. Before he can begin to explain himself or defend Mickey, Fiona has walked to Mickey and is considering him in the harsh, judgmental way only she is capable of.

 

“You look better than the picture they showed on TV. Where’s your partner in crime? They said you escaped with your cellmate.”

 

“The car was getting a little crowded. Left him at a gas station somewhere in Oklahoma.”

 

Fiona stares and Mickey stares right back. Ian is just about to step in and try to alleviate some of the building tension between the two when Fiona lifts her hand to Mickey’s shoulder and squeezes.

 

“Thank you. For bringing him back,” she says, only gratitude in her voice. She pulls her hand from Mickey and looks between them, as though she’s bearing witness to their six-year story all at once.

 

“’Course. He needed to be here. I wouldn’t keep him from this. Don’t want to keep him from anything.”

 

“Let’s sit,” Fiona says to both Ian and Mickey. “We’ve got some stuff to figure out.”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

 “I don’t care how shitty she was, we can’t just toss her in the ground,” Ian can’t believe they’re still having this conversation.

 

“Of course we can. She doesn’t care, and we don’t care, and we don’t have the money,” Lip said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“I’m not saying we get anything fancy. I know we don’t need an expensive coffin or a huge wake or whatever. But we have to do something. Hell, we managed to get ahold of a casket when Frank needed to fake his own death! Now you’re telling me we can’t get one for Monica?”

 

Mickey sits next to Liam on the couch, watching Ian pace as he and Lip argue. He knows it’s not his place to say something, and he certainly understands why Lip wouldn’t want to spend money on the woman — she was pretty shitty, even for a Southside parent — but the look on Ian’s face… Any one of them should be able to see how important this is to him. How much he needs to do this right, to say goodbye.

 

“Unless you can pull five grand out of your ass, Ian, this is the way it has to be!” Lip shouts, face red and a little sweaty.

 

“I don’t have it, Lip, you know that. Maybe we can’t buy her a coffin or a reception, but we can do more than throw her away like garbage.”

 

“She never did shit for you, Ian. She didn’t care about you. She didn’t love you. She didn’t love any of us. We were only ever inconveniences. Why are you so hell-bent on doing anything for her?”

 

Ian stops pacing then, and Mickey can see that his eyes are red-rimmed and shimmery, as if it’s all he can do to keep the tears at bay. And it breaks Mickey’s heart to see him hurting.

 

Suddenly, Mickey is on his feet and headed for the backpack Ian deserted by the door. The backpack that has the cash they withdrew from Ian’s savings account. So much for not getting involved.

 

“Mickey, don’t…” Ian starts, but he gets choked up and the rest of the sentence stays locked in his chest.

 

“We’ve got the money, asshole. Here.” Mickey tosses the envelope of cash to Lip, not bothering to see if he’s paying attention.

 

“What the fuck is this? You guys rob a couple convenience stores on your way back or something?” Lip asks as he thumbs through the cash.

 

“It’s my savings,” Ian says, his eyes glued to Mickey’s face. “I drained it so we’d have start-up money in Mexico.”

 

“It’s enough. For the casket, for the wake, for whatever he wants to do.” Mickey gestures to Ian, face resolute as he addresses the rest of the Gallaghers. “If it doesn’t matter to any of you how she gets taken care of, then let Ian do it his way with his own goddamn money.”

 

“Fine, do what you want to do, Ian. Blow your money on her. Just know that she wouldn’t do the same for you.” Lip tosses the money down on the coffee table and walks out the front door, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the mantle on his way. The rest of the Gallaghers retreat to their rooms, leaving only Mickey and Ian still in the living room.

 

“Mickey, I don’t want—”

 

“It’s been a long day,” Mickey says softly, in the voice he reserves for Ian alone. “We both need some sleep. We can talk about it again in the morning.” Mickey gets up from the couch and walks over to Ian. Standing close to him, he reaches up and tousles Ian’s hair, running his fingers through it and breaking up the gel. Ian leans into the feeling and into Mickey, and Mickey’s sure that if he stood there long enough, his redheaded giant would fall asleep on his feet.

 

“C’mon, let’s go upstairs.”

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

The neon numbers on the clock just turn to 3:57AM when Ian wakes. Mickey knows this because he’s been awake much longer, sitting in the familiarity of Ian’s childhood bedroom. Mickey turns to look at Ian as Ian turns to curl himself against Mickey’s side, cold toes brushing his shins and sending a shiver up his legs.

 

“You’re awake.” A groggy Ian looks up at Mickey and sees the side of his perfect pale face illuminated by the glow of the streetlight outside. It’s not a question, so Mickey doesn’t answer. Some still moments pass by — Ian looking at Mickey and Mickey looking at the popcorn ceiling of Ian’s room like it holds the secret to life.

 

Then, Mickey breaks the silence. “It’s like no time has passed.”

 

Ian waits for him to go on, wants to hear the ramblings of Mickey’s late-night mind after so much time.

 

“You and me… we’re still just laying in your bed. Your brother still asleep in the corner.” He keeps his voice low so as not to wake Liam. He’d always been a favorite of Mickey’s, second to Debbie and, of course, Ian. The only Gallagher who didn’t like to run his mouth.

 

“Is that good, or bad? That it feels like no time has passed?” Ian wonders as he tries to decipher what Mickey’s feeling.

 

“I don’t know. Both, maybe. Good because if no time has passed then we haven’t lost any. I never went to prison. You never broke up with me on your front steps. Never ran away with Monica. We’ve always just been here. Lying in your bed.”

 

“Why is it bad?”

 

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Because if no time has passed then we’re still here. We’re not going anywhere. We’re still in your bed and it’s comfortable… but if we try to leave it the whole thing collapses.”

 

“What whole thing, Mick?”

 

“ _This_ whole thing,” Mickey gestures between them with the hand not holding Ian’s underneath the sheets. “Us. We try to leave, try to do something different — better — and we can’t.”

 

Ian feels a sharp pang in his chest and realizes what Mickey’s saying. What he’s afraid of, though he would never use that word.

 

“Are you talking about Mexico?”

 

“Yeah, maybe. Or anything. Doesn’t have to be Mexico. I’m talking about…a fucking break, I guess. For us to get some traction, you know. For us to get somewhere.” Another deep breath. “We can never catch a fucking break.”

 

Ian doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t want to respond until he knows exactly how he wants to tell Mickey.

 

“You remember that time at the dugouts, right after you got out of juvie? You wanted to fuck there to get back at your little league coach for kicking you off the team when you pissed on first base. And I said I remembered it, because I was there?”

 

Mickey nods, though it’s a muted gesture with the side of his face resting against his pillow.

 

“Don’t you get it, Mick? It’s always been you and me. Even before we knew it. Before you even realized I existed, before you started stealing from the Kash ‘N Grab, before Mandy made up that shit about me and you tried to hunt me down and beat the shit out of me.”

 

Mickey cracks a smile at that one, remembering running around town trying to find the meek, freckled, redhead Mandy accused of fucking with her.

 

“Doesn’t matter if a million years have passed, or if it’s only been a minute. It’s been you and me, Ian and Mickey, from beginning to end. I’m in this, and Mexico is happening. We’re one step from the finish line, Mick. I can see it.”

 

Ian presses closer to Mickey, eyelashes tickling his rib cage, legs entwined, and for a second it feels as if they’re one person instead of two. As if when Mickey thought to move his hand, Ian’s fingers would twitch. Mickey has the same doubts in the back of his mind that he always does when he thinks about Ian Gallagher — that he’s too good, that he wants something more than Mickey could ever give him, that he can’t be trusted to stick around. And despite feeling this way, all Mickey can do is trust Ian all over again, completely. All he can do is follow him into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's really important to me is the end of this chapter, the last section of dialogue between Mickey and Ian. There's so much I need them to say. Maybe it's a little selfish, but I gotta fix my broken heart somehow.


End file.
